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Travel comes with its inconveniences.

Whether it’s a fantastical journey or one you never want to experience again, the packing and unpacking, followed by the inevitable cleanup of the long trip home, are inescapable nuisances and discomforts.

In the same vein, a business trip shares the same qualities as a voyage.

Expense reports, debriefs, evaluations, audits, and more.

Even when it’s public duty done by the book, the aftermath is always complicated and bothersome.

Wasting taxpayers’ money is an easy target for governmental audits. It’s not just taxpayers who despise seeing public funds leak away.

Thus, it was no coincidence that I was summoned back to the Military Intelligence Agency Headquarters right after the business trip was over; it was bound to happen.

“You suddenly went missing without a report. Not only that, you were with the detained handler and engaged in combat overseas as well.”

Leoni’s gaze was unimpressed. The director, flipping through the report, let out a deep sigh before speaking up.

“Is there anything here that doesn’t align with the facts?”

“None.”

“No additional remarks?”

“Correct.”

“I see.”

The head of the overseas office in the Military Intelligence Agency issued his order.

“Choose your discipline: demotion or labor. The decision is yours.”

—

Episode 17 – The Tree That Drinks Blood

The weather on the Mauritania Continent was sunny once again.

A thin line divided the sky from the earth, with the sand appearing as soft as a cozy blanket.

The brief rain that had fallen evaporated without leaving a trace. The scorching sun cast its light onto the damp earth, allowing the desert to rapidly regain its ancient appearance.

“Hey, could someone clear the artillery out of the way? There’s no way to pass!”

A soldier from the International Peacekeeping Force poked his head out the window, raising his voice. His native pronunciation of Patalia was textbook-perfect.

The soldiers, standing there with puzzled expressions, moved the artillery only after hearing the interpreter’s words.

The sight of the local soldiers struggling to shift the cannon was somehow familiar, evoking a sense of nostalgia.

“Come on, come on!”

A foreigner in International Peacekeeping Force gear began directing the maneuver in a professional tone. His gestures were smooth, clearly someone who had done this more than once.

“Let’s go!”

As the fuel truck arrived, the soldiers sprang into action.

They pulled out the refueling hose, and the main valve clicked into place. The motor powered by magic stones buzzed noisily for a moment before the hose shook and sloshed with pouring oil.

The soldiers grimaced as they filled the barrels with oil. The supervising Patalia unit member, hands behind his back, was overseeing the soldiers. Must be an executive.

“Wow, they really filled it up.”

The Patalian supervisor inspecting the barrels suddenly burst into laughter.

As the valve was secured and the hose was retrieved, the executive remarked, looking at the barrels filled with oil.

“Quite the smell, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Wow.”

Upon hearing the fluent reply in Patalian, the supervisor widened his eyes and feigned surprise, as if he couldn’t believe he was hearing his native language.

“You speak Patalian?”

“A little.”

“Given that pronunciation, you could fool me into thinking you were one of our laborers. Haha.”

The unnamed Patalian supervisor laughed heartily, saying he almost mistook me for a member of their unit.

Laborers refer to local and foreign workers employed by the International Peacekeeping Force under a contract with the Ministry of Defense, fulfilling various manual tasks. You often see them lying around like stones when you pass by overseas deployment units.

He might not have known who I was, but I wasn’t particularly offended.

In fact, not being recognized might be better.

At least for me at this moment.

“I’ve poured the oil. Just make sure to stir it carefully to avoid any burns. You know what happens if the oil catches fire, right?”

“Yes.”

“It’ll have a terrible stench. Blocking your nose won’t help. You’ll just have to bear with it as best you can. And if all goes well, better take off your tops.”

After tearing off two or three pieces of tissue, I stuffed them into my nose.

With the rolled-up tissues lodged in my nostrils, I glanced at the supervisor, holding a tattered mop I scavenged from the restroom.

“I see you’ve done this quite a bit.”

“Because of past discipline issues, I’ve had to do this a few times. It’s difficult to always ask the laborers to clean up.”

“Ah…”

After all, how could you assign such cleanup tasks?

Although maintenance work does fall to the laborers, I could see even those getting paid might scream if confronted with something at this level.

They probably throw the culprits into this shoddy job for that very reason.

“Oh dear, has the time flown so fast…? We should take our leave.”

“Yes, please do take care.”

Having completed the oil supply, the Patalian deployment troops drove off.

I watched the departing soldiers with envy before sighing deeply and gripping the mop once again.

With a plop, the pure wooden stick of the mop plunged into the substance. Squishy and mushy. A disgusting sensation crawled up my arm.

“Ugh.”

As I was swirling the stick, I paused and peered into the barrel. And once again, I sighed.

“…Seriously.”

The inside of the barrel was filled with the disgusting sight of mixed oil and waste.

The contents were the excrement left by soldiers who had come on a mission.

In other words, to put it concisely.

“Quite the lavish mess.”

It was poop.

—

There are three groups of people here.

When asked to pinpoint what is crucial during a war or military operation, these three would give entirely different answers.

The Defense Minister and chief of staff, a basement-dwelling otaku, would say weapons and troops are the most important.

The newbie would emphasize the significance of logistics and reconnaissance, going by the book.

Lastly, from personal experience, an active-duty soldier would assert that most of what the others mentioned is pretty useless.

None of them is entirely wrong, but there’s something far more important in war than logistics, reconnaissance, or weaponry.

It’s waste disposal.

A perennial headache troubling soldiers throughout history and across cultures.

“Ugh….”

If you carelessly relieve yourself anywhere, it turns into a party for disease and parasite duos, and if you clean it up half-heartedly, the stench rises, and on a bad day, the enemy scout could catch wind of it, revealing the size and location of your unit.

The issue of bodily waste disposal tortures not only the elderly with incontinence and dementia but also the promising young men.

Moreover, it’s the reason why you have to bang the heads, thick with fat, of those who babble about how next-gen fighters are inferior to those of neighboring countries or how the military is ineffective this way or that.

(Generally, these folks tend to be either extremely obese or underweight, as evidenced by the MEAL TEAM 6 of Western military organizations and the US military’s Operation Dessert Storm.)

“Ugh, chew.”

“Hey, it’s Frederick. What are you doing here?!”

While I was idly mucking about in the open space, Camila, passing by, dashed over to me, her face contorted in disgust as she began to back away.

“Labor.”

I put down the stick I was stirring with and spoke, my voice nasally from blocking my nose.

“Don’t come near me. Shoo. Please, get away quickly.”

“What on earth is this… Aaaah-!!”

Camila, who had blocked her nose and approached, jumped back after peering into the barrel. It was as if she discovered what lay in the abyss, ignoring my warning.

Flames danced like a campfire within the barrel. The foul smell of gasoline and an indescribably terrible odor wafted from there, mixed with piles of burning waste.

Holding her nose with one hand, Camila alternated her gaze between the barrel and me, as if looking at a psychotherapist or doctor who devours human flesh.

“What, what are you—what on earth are you stirring in there?!”

A sigh escaped me naturally. I weakly replied while spinning the mop.

“Can’t you tell?”

“N-No, why on earth are you stirring that?!”

“I’m disposing of waste.”

While many people find it unclean, fundamentally, humans live by relieving themselves. In a slightly exaggerated sense, you could say we’re biological factories that produce waste.

Therefore, the question of “How do we manage waste to maintain cleanliness?” runs parallel to the history of humanity. One could even quote the French author of timeless masterpieces like Les Misérables, who said, “The history of the toilet is the history of humanity.”

The military is no exception.

In war, waste disposal has been a long-standing issue that haunts commanders, both past and present, East and West.

Historically, many soldiers have died due to diseases, epidemics, and infections rather than due to weapons like guns and swords, and until the 20th century, contaminated water sources and soils wreaked havoc on both invading forces and defenders alike, acting as powerful biological weapons.

The issue arises precisely here.

While stationed, it’s one matter, but how do you handle bodily waste in wartime?

If you turn the entire battlefield into a cesspool, it might seem convenient in the short term, but problems are bound to arise eventually. Whether the local populace drinks the contaminated water and contracts cholera or if the excrement of a patient with hemorrhagic fever leads to the entire unit’s demise.

Thus, numerous commanders wishing to prevent non-combat losses during wartime (or perhaps not wanting to soil themselves) devised groundbreaking measures for waste disposal.

And here it is. The method known as “Burn pit” is precisely what the US military has been continuously employing since the 20th century.

Pour gasoline on a pile of waste and light it on fire.

“What a terrible smell.”

The unique feature of this method is just that— the stink. The awful odor that emerges when the waste, seasoned with the pungent mix of methanol and diesel as they ignite and burn away, eclipses everything.

It’s comparable to the smell of two homeless men getting down together in a urine-soaked space. That kind of odor describes the essence of it.

I retrieved the tissue jammed in my nose as I stirred the barrel. Every swirl seemed to alter the aroma somehow.

While you could say a woman’s transformation is innocent, the ever-changing stench from the latrine feels deserving of a life sentence. Whoever thought this up should be court-martialed immediately.

Other than that, that’s a war crime, damn it.

While I was vigorously stirring the barrel, burning waste and excrement.

The shocked Camila, who had been frozen, cautiously approached and suddenly started to speak.

“Um… I think I’ve seen this in a drama. Or was it a movie? It was on Netflix. It involved the US military, right?”

“It’s a method the US troops use. Well, other militaries do the same.”

The method of burning waste for disposal is, surprisingly, frequently employed by other nations.

Back in the early 2000s, one of my former superiors in military intelligence accompanied an Iraq deployment, and I heard that the national military would handle waste this way as well.

This type of waste disposal was usually handled by soldiers, not executives. The nationality doesn’t matter. It’s universal that senior personnel delegate tasks to their juniors. Especially if those tasks involve poking at waste with a stick. It’s not something someone with a rank like a major should be doing.

Sure enough, it seemed Camila was thinking along similar lines. Holding her nose, she looked at me with a confused expression.

“But why are you doing this all of a sudden?”

I held my breath and replied curtly.

“Discipline.”

“Oh, unauthorized combat?”

“Uh-huh.”

The journey to find the angel was achieved by locating Nathaniel in the underground ruins.

However, as a swarm of lesser demons, sealed within the underground ruins (different from the hardcore demon we met in the northern regions), were unleashed, a battle broke out.

To reiterate, foreign troops engaging in combat in a foreign country is a serious matter intertwined with violations of sovereignty, which could escalate into diplomatic issues.

Having arrived with the peacekeeping force to swiftly resolve the situation in the Mauritania Continent, the local governments were clearly in a subordinate position while we held the upper hand.

But that didn’t mean we could just fight willy-nilly without a care.

Thus, two options were presented to the Abas government.

First, to cool the situation as befits a great power.

Ignore diplomatic responsibilities and say, “Don’t care! I’m not involved. Just deal with it, okay~?” while trampling on the sovereignty of local nations.

Second, to punish those involved and move on.

Take a suitable scapegoat, chop off a head for show, and brazenly say, “Yeah, something unpleasant happened, but it wasn’t intentional, so let’s just move on!”

The choice made by the Abas government was the latter.

For reference, that suitable scapegoat was me. To be precise, I was the only option available.

The reason was simple.

Among the Abas government officials, I was the only one who followed Ramiel.

I hate to admit it, but I was receiving the karmic retribution I had built up.

“So, this ends up being a janitorial duty….”

Camila looked at me with pitying eyes. Countless emotions of comfort and sympathy reflected in her gaze.

In response to her, I hurriedly waved my hands.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s just a cosmetic punishment.”

“A cosmetic punishment?”

“It means it’s just for show, nothing serious.”

As I mentioned earlier, unauthorized combat could receive a formal complaint from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

However, the local government (the nation where the combat happened was far removed from the refugee camp related to the coalition forces’ operations) officially did not protest.

In fact, there were moves to summon the Abas ambassador stationed there, but Al-Yabd’s side blocked it.

But even with Al-Yabd calming the situation, the Abas government couldn’t just sit back and stay quiet.

All eyes from various embassies were on the situation. Without an apology or punishment, they might face all kinds of criticism behind their backs.

Thus, the Military Intelligence Agency demanded that I choose between a six-month salary cut or labor—either option was mine.

Well… for me, it was a positive outcome.

It was pretty lucky, to put it that way.

“Just a slip-up and I could get expelled, but they’re letting me off with a few jobs, so it seemed good at first.”

Had the Military Intelligence Agency genuinely wanted to get rid of me, they would have started with a demotion. Then, I would have been summoned by the Inspection Office.

But the company didn’t do that.

Thanks to Leoni stepping in before things escalated, the punishment remained within her jurisdiction.

Of course, had the facts been clarified, I wouldn’t have even received a formal reprimand. However, the ‘incident that occurred that night in the underground ruins’ was kept a secret.

The contents in the letter the Abas Ministry of Foreign Affairs sent to the local government only stated that unauthorized combat had occurred.

There was no mention of ‘what’ fought.

To explain it would require revealing the circumstances, but if we were to punish, there was only one culprit.

So what could I do? The one who messed up had to face consequences. It’s not like anyone else had made a mistake but me.

The problem was…

“But why does it have to be cleaning the bathroom?”

“…….”

“Um, so like, a poop stick?”

As Camila chuckled, she suddenly rolled her eyes back and bolted away, because I had pulled out a mop from the drum, looking like I was about to swing it.

“Yikes—! What are you doing?! Have you lost your mind?!”

“Stop whining and go catch some monsters!”

“I already caught them?!”

“Just go already! Come on!”

Watching Camila retreat, I irritably poked around with the stick in the drum.

This was happening while I was barely emptying one of eight drums.

*

As the dignity of humanity fell through the floor and descended to the basement, I imagined being stabbed to death by a poop stick for choosing labor over a six-month salary cut. Finally, the job of processing waste was complete.

“Finally!”

After incinerating the amount of poop and pee that filled eight drums, I could finally regain my freedom.

Temporarily.

“…What did you say?”

“Yes, you need to come back in 9 days to work again.”

“Why is that?”

“What you just processed was from last month. That means the waste accumulated this month is still left. In 9 days, it’ll be the end of the month, so you’ll need to deal with it then.”

An official from the international relief organization managing the refugee camp delivered this thunderous news.

Wait, can this organization not manage to set up a bathroom while running on an international level? Stuffing thousands of people into a camp like a pigpen and not having proper toilet facilities—does that even make sense?

Just as I was about to lodge a protest out of disbelief.

Suddenly, Jake’s report before heading out to Mauritania popped into my mind.

It said something about the Kien Empire having paid for the modernization costs of the local government’s water and sewage, but the president embezzled all the funds.

Such a ridiculous country exists. They’re even worse than Afghanistan.

“Aah….”

A sigh came out involuntarily.

I had been living in a fantasy.

In the first place, this wasn’t an incident that could be resolved with a day’s worth of labor. Why did I think I could wash my sins away with just a day’s work?

I couldn’t help but lament in endless despair, but it was now time to return to reality. I needed to transition from a poop stick back to being an information officer.

In the end, I had to change clothes without even being able to grumble properly.

Just then, as I was returning to the office, I ran into Pippin in the hallway, carrying meeting materials and heading somewhere.

“Hey, Pippin. Where are you headed?”

“I’m going to a meeting. I’m meeting with the Royal Intelligence Department analysts regarding the Hassan Warlord project.”

Hmm. That project was something I had been handling: the conflict between Asen and Sanya.

Despite having transferred it to Matt now, the Third World branch was chronically understaffed, so we still had some participation in the project.

Worried that there might have been a serious incident, I asked Pippin a question.

“Did something big happen?”

“It’s just a regular meeting.”

Oh, nothing serious then.

“I think I can return as soon as the meeting wraps up… I’ve left the report from the Necropolis in the manager’s office.”

“Got it. Take care.”

“Oh, and Manager?”

“Yeah?”

“About the incident from last time. The Inquisition contacted us….”

Pippin stopped me as I was about to enter the office and added.

“They were inquiring about the escapee from the detention facility, who was discovered last time while following Saint Lucia to find you, and the new handler they found. They asked if you had any information on them.”

“Were there any other details?”

“The Inquisition is currently trying to track down those two handlers…. But there doesn’t seem to be any significant leads yet. The staff over there seems quite frustrated.”

“……”

“What should I say?”

“I don’t have any info, but if something comes to mind, tell them I’ll contact them separately.”

Oh, and.

“By the way, where are Jake and Charnoy right now?”

“Jake is at the rear headquarters today, and I don’t really know where Charnoy is. He hasn’t had much to do lately.”

“Tell him to come find me if he returns.”

“Yes.”

I waved my hand and unlocked the office to enter. Moments later, I came out holding a file envelope and got into a vehicle.

With a Nymph riding in the back.

“Where are we headed…?”

After gleefully speeding down the straight highway for about 90 minutes, I finally arrived at a familiar luxurious building.

It was a safe house where the angel was hiding.

 

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